


if I had a box just for wishes

by essiefied



Category: Fast and the Furious Series, Hobbs & Shaw (2019)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-09-24 06:18:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20353783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essiefied/pseuds/essiefied
Summary: A collection of my assorted tumblr drabbles for Hobbs and Shaw.





	1. pyjamas

**Author's Note:**

> yo! so, I'm new to writing, and decided to share a couple of my drabbles with ya'll from tumblr. I appreciate any constructive criticism. I also take prompt requests! see end notes for info on my tumblr. *fingerguns @ ya'll*
> 
> written for the ask: can we Please talk about how deckard sleeps in silk pajamas - anonymous

“You’ve gotta be joking,” Hobbs meets him with as Shaw steps out of the en-suite bathroom of his London flat, towel wrapped around his waist.

“The only joke in here is your face,” Deckard quips back automatically, but there’s no heat in it. His eyes linger over the other man’s boxer-clad form in appreciation as Hobbs lounges back on the king-sized bed, head resting on one big forearm, and the position shows off his absolutely monstrous bicep beside it. And Deckard, even after their recent, ah, _activities_, can still feel a new stirring of arousal in his gut at the sight.

Shaw could safely say now that he knew exactly just how much show _and_ go all of those lovely muscles had, and it was quite a bit of both.

“_Please_ tell me one of your girlfriends left these here,” Hobbs interrupts his thoughts. The big man’s lips twitch into a smirk, and he holds up the set of royal blue silk pyjamas that Shaw had fished out of his dresser earlier.

Deckard frowns. “You’re gonna wrinkle ‘em,” he snaps, striding over and snatching them out of the agent’s mammoth hand. He tosses them on the bed and smoothes out the fabric, shooting a pointed frown Hobbs’ way as the other man sits up from his previous sprawl.

“You serious?” Hobbs laughs, incredulous. “You’re really gonna wear those? To _sleep_ in?”

“No, I’m gonna wear ‘em to assassinate the queen,” Deckard retorts with a roll of his eyes. “Of course I’m gonna fucking sleep in ‘em. You got a problem with that?”

Hobbs holds his hands up in surrender, though, grinning. The man snickers, and shakes his head.

“Guess I should’ve known _his royal majesty_ slept in silk pyjamas.”

Shaw scowls and turns away from the bigger man and the teasing glint in his eye. He lets the towel drop from around his waist and slip to the floor without a single thought for shame.

“Just like you,” he mutters, pulling the pyjama trousers towards himself. “No appreciation for the finer things.”

“Oh, I appreciate fine things,” Hobbs says, and his voice is suddenly low and husky as his eyes dart down to fix on Shaw’s naked ass. He reaches out to palm one of the toned cheeks in front of him, but Shaw steps out of his reach and slips on the bottoms before he can finish the move. Hobbs huffs in disappointment.

Deckard smirks down at him for a moment, and then in one smooth movement he’s on the bed, straddling Hobbs and settling his weight down on the lawman’s thighs. “They feel nice,” he states, in answer to the man’s earlier question.

“Nice, huh?” Hobbs asks distantly, distracted by the new development. He settles his big hands on Deckard’s silk-clad waist, and his thumbs circle against the nicely defined hip bones that peek out over the fabric’s edge.

Shaw can feel Hobbs’ interest perking, as the cock beneath him suddenly gets a bit firmer.

“Yeah,” Deckard breathes out, leaning down to brush his lips briefly against Luke’s. He starts to slowly grind himself against the other man, and Hobbs growls, hands moving to Shaw’s ass, his grip on it sliding from the silky fabric. _“Nice.”_

Hobbs tries to lean up for a kiss, but Shaw pulls back, a teasing smirk on his mouth that makes Hobbs want to bite it. Instead, he moves one hand from Shaw’s ass - the other still pulling him forward, encouraging each slow, steady grind of his hips - and reaches down to palm the mercenary’s cock through the silk of his trousers. Deckard bucks into the sudden pressure with a hiss.

“I think I can get behind that,” Hobbs husks out, massaging the length in his hand through the fabric - and he imagines it _does_ feel nice, if the way Shaw bites his lip and lets his eyes flutter close is any indication.

Hobbs wonders…

In the next moment he’s flipping their positions, taking advantage of Shaw’s distraction to do so (though even distracted, Luke is smart enough to know that the reversal likely only happened because Shaw allowed it). Hobbs’ hands move to his own boxers, and he quickly slips them down his hips, before pressing forward to thrust against the silk covering Shaw’s groin.

And - oh, yeah. _Nice_ is exactly how that feels.

Shaw instantly moves to mirror Hobbs, thumbs hooking into his trousers to pull them down, but the bigger man stops him.

“Keep ‘em on,” Hobbs growls, slotting his leg between Deckard’s, and leans down to suck a bruising kiss into the man’s neck.

“Fine,” Shaw groans, tipping his head back. “But if these get ruined, you’re gonna buy me another fucking pair.”

Hobbs laughs helplessly into Shaw’s throat and Deckard grins, and pulls him up to quiet him with a kiss.


	2. the baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the ask: Ugh, now I want to read Hattie as The Baby™ shenanigan stories. I can just imagine the trouble she would get in that Deckard and Owen would inevitably get drawn into... - anonymous

_“MUUUUUUUM!”_

Magdalene pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs as the panicked screech rips through the air. Not two seconds later, the source of it - in the form of her youngest child - flings herself around the corner, laughing manically, and grabs ahold of her mother’s skirt to place herself firmly behind her, as though wielding a human shield.

Owen comes barreling around the corner immediately after.

“I’m gonna _KILL YOU!”_ he snarls, veering around their mother to grab at Hattie’s hair. Hattie screams and dodges back, keeping Mags between them as much as possible.

_Jesus fuckin’ Christ_, Magdalene thinks. What had she done to deserve this shit?

… well, a lot, honestly, but it was a rhetorical fucking question anyway.

“_OI!”_ She shouts, and both children instantly go still as _Mum Voice_ is utilized to the utmost levels of terrifying. “What’s all this about, then!?”

_“She set my hair on fire!”_ Owen howls, raising his voice above Hattie’s instant denials. And - well, fuck her sideways, but his hair is looking a bit singed now, isn’t it?

“Did not!” Hattie quickly yells.

“YES YOU FUCKING DID!”

“_PROVE IT, ARSEFACE!_”

_“**THAT’S ENOUGH!**” _Mags bellows above the both of them, and their jaws simultaneously snap shut with identical clicks. Her glare slowly passes between the two brats in front of her.

“Owen,” she snaps. “You know the rules - no whinging if you fall for a trap, sweetheart.” She pats his head to soothe the sting of the words, and grimaces at the crispy texture of burnt hair. Hattie snickers; Owen’s eyes speak death in her direction.

“And you, Hats,” Mags snaps at her youngest, who instantly straightens at the bite in her voice. “Apologize to your bruvvah.”

Hattie’s face twists into the picture of offense. “But _MUM - !”_

“No buts!” Mags cuts her off with an upheld hand. “You get caught, you pay the consequences, ya hear?”

The girl pouts, and crosses her arms with a huff. Owen narrows his eyes in smug satisfaction. 

“I’m sorry,” Hattie mutters unconvincingly, glaring up at her older brother. Owen’s lip curls into a sneer.

Hattie’s face scrunches fiercely at the sight of it. And then, out of the corner of her mouth, she mutters, “Sorry that you were _stupid enough to fall for it.”_

Predictably, Owen leaps at her, and Hattie meets him with a swipe of her fist before Magdalene shoves the two apart.

“NONE OF THAT!” she snarls. Owen’s fists clench, and Hattie sticks her tongue out at him. Mags huffs in frustration. “What in the _ever-lovin’ shit _did you even do, Hats?”

Hattie kicks her foot against the floor and shifts guiltily. “The Billy Joel,” she mumbles.

And - well. That explained the fire, at least.

“You’re such a _bitch!”_ Owen hisses.

Hattie’s head pops back up from her hunched position, and she snarls savagely, “Decks would have popped you in the mouth if he saw how much you were _bitchin’_ afterwards!”

“Deckard’s not a little fucking brat, is he? He’s too mature to pull your stupid shit!”

Mags has to laugh at that one, because oh, suddenly all of it made so much _sense._ “Oh, bollocks,” she chuckles, patting Owen’s shoulder in condolence. “Your bruvvah perfected that one before you were ever even born, luv.”

Owen pauses, brow furrowed - and then his eyes widen. He whirls on Hattie with a suspicious glare. “Wait, did Deckard _show you -?”_

Hattie’s face instantly blanks, and her eyes widen in faux-innocence. The expression is answer enough, really. With a howl of rage, Owen whips back around and storms out of the kitchen with a furious roar of, _“DECKARD!”_

His sudden exit leaves Hattie and her mother in silence. Hat peeks up at her from under her fringe, and Mags clucks scoldingly at her.

“What was your first mistake, Hats?” she prompts.

“… I stuck around to watch.”

“And the second?”

Hattie scuffs her foot against the floor again. “I laughed.”

“No point in pullin’ a heist if ya get caught, luv,” Mags says, crouching down to look her daughter in the eye. “Learn from your mistakes, biscuit. I didn’t raise no pack of second-hand pickpockets, did I?” Hattie smirks, and shakes her head. Mags pets it softly with a smile.

“Never stick around, and if ya do, find a fallman. Take yer bruvvah, for instance - Decks got the blame pinned on ya, dinn’t he? Taught ya how to do it, then sent ya off to terrorize Owen.”

Hattie blinks - and then her jaw drops as she catches on.

“He did _not - !”_

“Oh, yes he did,” Mags snickers. “Now, run off and figure out how to do it better next time, yeah? Mummy’s got her own heist to plan.”

Hattie’s face takes on a contemplative look, and she nods. A moment later she darts in to wrap her arms around her mother’s waist in a quick hug.

“I’m gonna make Decks wish he was _never born,”_ she states fiercely, and Mags laughs in delight.

“That’s my girl,” she praises, planting a kiss on her daughter’s forehead before the girl scampers off with a vicious smirk. Mags sits back at her previously abandoned chair and takes a fortifying sip of her tea before shaking her head and glancing back down at the blueprints in front of her.

She drums her fingers against the table for a moment, and tilts her head in consideration.

“Hm. The Billy Joel, eh?”

… that could work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on tumblr at username: deckard-shaw


	3. shobbs rom-com au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the ask: Imagine if Hobbs and Shaw got their own sitcom. - arianatheangelworld

“No _fucking_ way,” Shaw snaps, throwing the contract back down on the table with an angry slap. The words _**STARRING: LUKE HOBBS, DECKARD SHA**_**_W_** stare back up at him from it mockingly. Shaw clenches his jaw in annoyance; if looks could kill, the papers would be a pile of ash at this point.****

“You need to suck it up and take the deal, Decks,” his sister says, crossing her arms, lips twisted with irritation. Deckard snorts derisively and Hattie’s scowl deepens. “This could get you back up to the top and you know it.”

She pauses, and a tinge of regret comes over her expression. “It’s not like we have offers like this pouring in anymore.”

Deckard turns his face away without replying. There isn’t much to really say, anyways; she’s right, and they both know it. Not too long ago he had studios pitching big name roles like this to him at least weekly, but the phone calls have since dried up, and there was no use in pretending they both didn’t know _why_.

Hattie said she didn’t blame him, that he’d been justified in all of it, but Deckard couldn’t quite convince himself. _He_ may have felt justified at the time, thrumming with rage as he’d stormed onto the set and punched Dominic Toretto right in his _goddamn fucking smug face_ after the man had pulled a stunt that had landed Owen in the hospital, but most of Hollywood hadn’t felt the same way. They’d labelled him a trouble-maker after that, and trouble-makers weren’t the hirable sort in this business.

He and Toretto may have been on better terms now, after sussing things out, but the silver screen was an old business that held even older grudges, and mistakes like that were never really forgotten - as evidenced by he and Hattie’s year-long dry run.

“Look,” Hattie pleads, running a hand through her hair, “just read the script. It’s fantastic. It’s going to be big, Deck. And they really, _really_want you for it!”

Deckard grimaced. The problem was, he’d already read the script. And his sister was right - it was fantastic. Beyond fantastic, really. It was the kind of role his fanbase loved to see him in, and he knew just from looking at it that the movie was going to be big. Great writing, an incredible director, and a star-studded cast.

If only one of those stars wasn’t a giant wanker.

“I can’t work with him, Hat. He’s a massive fucking arsehole.”

“And you’re, what, prince charming?” She snorts. “Come off it. 

“Besides,” he sneers, electing to ignore that comment and leaning his head back against the couch to stare at the ceiling with disdain, “the moment Hobbs finds out who they want to co-star, he’s going to throw the script out the fucking window.”

“He’s already signed.”

Shaw pauses. He tilts his head to the side to stare at his sister, and she crosses her arms and raises a haughty brow. Deckard squints at her in suspicion.

“What do you mean,_ ‘he’s already signed’_?”

“I mean,” Hattie drawls, “_Luke Hobbs has already signed_. He told the producers he had a few conditions -”

“Of course the diva has conditions,” Deckard scoffs.

“- and one of them was that he could back out of the whole thing if _you specifically_ didn’t sign for this role.”

Shaw’s mouth falls shut at that proclamation. He doesn’t quite know what to say, besides a hearty _what the fuck?_, and even that doesn’t fully portray the sheer bewilderment he feels from his sister’s words.

“You’re telling me,” Deckard says slowly, as though not quite able to believe the words about to fall from his mouth, “that spray-tan sasquatch wants me in on this? And he knows they want me for _this _role?”

Because he wouldn’t just be co-starring with this one, oh no. That would make the whole situation too easy, wouldn’t it? The role they’d cast him for wasn’t the sidekick, or the buddy-cop partner, or even the villain, which he’d played quite a bit of in the past, and thoroughly enjoyed at that.

It was the love interest.

“He knows,” Hattie says, and Shaw doesn’t really appreciate the way the corner of her mouth twitches in poorly-suppressed humor. “And he wants you in for it.”

“Since when do you know so much about what Luke fucking Hobbs wants, anyways?”

“We talk,” Hattie says, shrugging. Deckard stares at her, affronted. “What? He’s charming.”

“Traitor,” he mutters. Shaw stares down at the script again, and drums his fingers anxiously against the armrest.

Luke Hobbs wants him in the movie.

Luke Hobbs wants Deckard Shaw as his_ love interest_ in the movie.

Shaw was convinced that this was all some sort of publicity stunt that the man was cooking up, but he couldn’t help the flush that worked it’s way up his neck even so.

“Fine,” he snaps, snatching the papers back up from the table and taking the pen that his sister smugly hands him with a glare. “But if this goes tits up, I reserve the right to say I fucking told you so.”

He quickly scrawls his name as Hattie crows in success and grabs her phone, immediately making calls to whichever producer was waiting for the confirmation. Deckard stares down at his signature with sudden dread.

Luke Hobbs’ love interest. _Goddamnit_, he thinks.

This was going to be a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a part 2 and 3 on my tumblr after this one. not really sure where I'm going with this little thing, but if I continue it, I might make a separate fic for it here.
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at username: deckard-shaw


	4. field trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the ask: Deckard or Hattie or Owen or Luke or all of them chaperone Sam’s class field trip

Shaw nearly fumbles the burning hot frying pan when Sam first asks the question. He’s an international spy with reflexes that rival a cat’s, though, so instead of dropping the pan and splattering pancake batter across Hobbs’ kitchen, he pauses.

And slowly, incredulously, turns to look at the kid.

“… come again?” he asks, and Shaw can feel the way his face is twisted in a moue of disbelief. He tones the expression down just a touch, though, as Sam glances away and fiddles timidly with the pen in her hand.

“We’re supposed to go on a field trip next week. My class, I mean. To the San Diego zoo.” She scuffs her foot against the ground, eyes still firmly Not Looking at Deckard. It’d be endearing, if the subject matter wasn’t so baffling. The next part falls out of her mouth in a rush. “And I’ve never been there before, and I’ve always wanted to go, but Dad’s usually pretty busy, so we’ve never had the chance, so I was _really_ excited about the field trip, but Mr. Brougher said there’s not enough parents signed up yet, and that if we don’t get at least three more adults to chaperone by the end of today then–then–”

Her shoulders hunch in. It’s almost painful seeing it. Shaw feels guilty just witnessing the sight.

“… then he’s gonna cancel the trip,” she finishes quietly.

Silence follows her monologue. Neither of them try to fill it–Sam, because she’s too absorbed in staring at the floor, spinning the pen round and round her little fingers in skittish habit, and Deckard because he’s too busy choking on his own tongue in surprise to say a word.

The butter from the pan decides to fill it for them, apparently, as it hiss-pops and bubbles, and splashes a few drops on his hand. Shaw cuts off his own hiss of pain from the burn of it, and turns back to the stove; the motion is half to distract from the alarming subject of conversation, and half to prevent the food from burning.

“… are those pancakes?” Sam asks behind him, shuffling closer to glance curiously at the pan. Apparently, the sight of food was a sure-fire way to tempt the kiddo out of her little bout of nervousness.

_Apples and trees_, Shaw thinks, the corner of his mouth ticking up somewhat before he has a chance to smooth it over.

“Pull out a plate and the syrup, and I’ll get you some before your bus gets here.”

Sam skips over to the cabinets to do as told, and Shaw takes the moment to wonder how the hell he ended up here: Hobbs’ kitchen, cooking pancakes for a child, being asked to _babysit schoolchildren._

He’s a mercenary. An ex-special ops assassin. A cold-blooded, red-handed, rap-sheet-bigger-than-Luke-Hobbs’-biceps _murderer_.

He’s not some–some fucking_ nanny._

So what if he occasionally shows up at the Hobbs homestead post-mission, bruised and scraped and in need of a place to sleep and lick his wounds where he doesn’t need to keep one eye open in paranoia? If he occasionally stays a few days here and there, bickering and bitching the time away with the lawman; if from time to time he glances over Samantha’s shoulder while grabbing a glass of water from the fridge, and absently tosses out advice and corrections for her assignments. If sometimes the two of them even manage to coax Shaw to the dining table for meals, like he’s some stray cat that’s grudgingly wandered into their home. 

And _so what _if maybe, occasionally, when Sam is away at Hobbs’ sister’s or a friend’s home, and the house is otherwise quiet and empty–if he lets the bickering turn into something else. Lets Hobbs slam him up against a wall or a counter or the fucking dining room table, any flat sturdy surface that can take the roughousing. If, _maybe_, he lets Hobbs do things to him he wouldn’t otherwise permit.

_So fucking what?_

It’s not like any of that makes him the kid’s step-mother.

“You’re burning them,” Sam points out absentmindedly. Shaw glances down at the pan in his hand, and lo-and-behold, the flat little pastry was starting to char around the edges. He scowls, and flips the pancake onto its other side with a quick flick of his wrist.

Still looks salvageable, at least.

He stops to process that thought for a moment, and–Deckard doesn’t even _like_ pancakes. 

Why was he making pancakes?

“Can you make one shaped like a star?” Sam asks cheerfully from her stool at the kitchen counter, scribbling in her glitter-pink notebook. “Dad’s really good at making shapes.”

And Shaw, because he wasn’t about to let Luke fucking Hobbs upstage him in _anything_, acquiesces. He shapes the runny batter into something that resembles a lopsided star, perhaps, if you happen to squint and spin around three times before peeking at it sideways.

Shaw stares at it for a moment. And then, briefly, glances back and forth between the pan, with it’s demented star-cake starting to brown, and the little girl next to him, still happily absorbed in her drawing. Realization builds in his chest like dread.

… Jesus Christ.

He was being _domesticated_.

“So, can you?”

Samantha peers up at him with big, brown, apprehensive eyes, and bites her lip as though worried about the answer. It takes Shaw a moment to remember what exactly the question had even been.

Ah. Yes. The…_ field trip._

_No_, he wants to say, blunt and brutally honest. No chance in all the realms of hell was he about to chaperone a bus full of screaming niblets. The concept was–completely barking, really. Hattie would certainly get a laugh out of it, if she had even an inkling that the idea was put out on the table.

But the kid looks half-way to hiding herself under her own hair again, and even Shaw isn’t heartless enough to ignore that. “Probably not a good idea,” he says instead, slowly, to take any bite out of it. He flips the pancake over to avoid having to look at the disappointment he just knows is on the little bit’s face at his answer. “You even ask your dad yet?”

“He said he doesn’t get home from his next trip until two days after,” she answers, and even without looking at her Shaw can still hear the dejection in her voice. He winces. God, he’s _such_ a bastard.

Really, though, that’s all the better reason for him _not_ to be around a group of young and impressionable children.

“You know if your dad ain’t gonna be here, I won’t be either, don’t you?” he asks, still beating around the bush. Shaw doesn’t really want to face the music and put that defeated look in her big bambi eyes.

_Stall_, he thinks. When was the fucking bus getting here?

“But he’s only going to be gone for a couple days! And if _you_ watch me, then Aunt Lisa won’t have to cancel her beach trip next week. It’s _perfect_.”

The kid really had it planned out, didn’t she? Sneaky little bugger.

He wasn’t about to fall for it, though. And if she really thought her father, of all people, would willingly leave his nine year old daughter in the hands of _Deckard Shaw,_ then the kid was only deluding herself.

“I don’t think it’s gonna…”

_Work like that,_ he wants to say, but her pouting face makes him hesitate. _Goddamn big brown bambi eyes,_ he thinks, and tries to steel himself to finish the sentence–

“_Please_, Uncle Deck?”

… aw, fuck.

Shaw rubs a hand across his face, and swallows down the bitter taste of defeat with as much grace as he can muster.

“Your dad ain’t gonna let me watch you, kid,” he says. Sam’s face starts to fall, but it perks back up instantly as he finishes it with, “but I can… _chaperone_. Your trip.”

The cheer Sam makes gets muffled into his stomach as she flings herself at him, and Shaw catches her in alarm. He’s not quite sure what to do with his hands as the nine year old wraps her own arms around his waist in a hug that was tighter than he’d expect from someone her size.

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you–” she babbles delightedly. Deckard decides patting her head is probably safe enough, and does so awkwardly until she lets go, humming, and dances back to her seat.

The next few minutes pass in a blur of serving the kid breakfast, with a background chatter of Sam rambling about a social studies project that was due in two weeks. Shaw can’t really say he’s paying much attention, though; the cringing dread welling up in him was too distracting.

By the time Sam grabs her bookbag and darts in to steal another quick hug before rushing off for the bus that was idling out front of the house, Shaw’s regretting every decision that ever lead him to Luke Hobbs’ doorstep.

A chaperone. For a _fourth grade_ _field trip_.

It may have only been seven thirty in the morning, but _Christ_, he really needed some alcohol.


	5. five sentence fics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> taking some downtime from writing my fics, so I asked for 1-sentence prompts for 5-sentence drabbles on tumblr. they're all more than five sentences, but still relatively short drabbles. here's the first batch.

** _Ask: Shobbs, “You wanna run that by me again, Smallfry?!”_ **

“Oh, my apologies,” Shaw scoffed, leaning casually back against the conference room table with an air that he truly hoped exuded just how much he _ could not care fucking less _ about Hobbs’ indignant bristling. “Should'a known peabrain here would need it spelled out. Let me rephrase: I ain’t working with the walking billboard for performance enhancers on an _ undercover mission.” _

Ridiculous—the whole thing was just _ ridiculous._ If Nobody had even so much as hinted at what the man had planned when he’d called Shaw in, politely tugging at the leash he’d wrapped snugly around the mercenary’s neck with words like _ breach of contract _ and _ deportation_, Shaw would’ve—

Well, maybe not have said _ no, _exactly, but there would’ve been some words. Probably a good laugh, too.

Hobbs opened his mouth again, looking half-ready to throw Shaw through another table, but Nobody cut in before the man could snarl out a comeback.

Shaw would never admit that he was a bit disappointed by it.

\----------

** _Ask: For the ship thing: Shobbs (obviously). Sentence: It was 2:00 in the morning and the baby was crying. Again._ **

Shaw slowly blinked awake at the sound, mind still half-fogged from sleep and the increasing lack of it over the past several days.

Waking to the dulcet, wailing tones of an infant was starting to become habit. The first night it happened, he’d shot up from bed like a gunshot had gone off, instantly alert and prepared to put down what or whomever was making the noise—but now, two weeks in, rousing himself for it was getting more and more difficult. The thought of just letting himself drift back into sleep was tempting.

He wasn’t quite asshole enough to leave the kid sobbing, though, so instead Shaw groaned quietly into the pillow, and kicked his foot back into the muscled thigh somewhere behind him. A grunt let him know he was successful.

“Your turn, meathead.”

\----------

** _Ask: Okay, another ship thing: Shobbs. Sentence: "Okay big boy, time to make you pretty."_ **

Hobbs shot him a _ look,_ narrow-eyed and not at all appreciative for the humor of the situation. Shaw just smirked, and grabbed the man’s arm, sliding the first cufflink into place.

“Don’t remember the last time I had to wear one of these,” the lawman said with a grimace, tugging at the tie knotted at his throat. Shaw smacked his hand away in annoyance.

“Stop fiddlin’ with it,” he snapped. Nimble fingers slipped up to Hobbs’ neck and undid the now-loosened Half-Windsor there, sliding the silky material between them with practiced ease. Shaw refused to look up at the man’s face as he concentrated on wrapping the cloth back into a proper knot.

Even undercover, he wasn’t about to let himself get paraded around by some sloppy Dom who couldn’t even wear a fucking _ tie _ right.

\----------

** _Ask: Ship: Shobbs. Sentence: "Why does it matter which kind of diapers we get? They're just going to get pooped and peed on anyway."_ **

“Sizes, for one,” Shaw muttered absently, attention mostly on the wall-to-wall shelves of nappies in front of them rather than Hobbs’ grumbling. He grimaced at the sight of the cheap discount brand that looked more like cardboard than anything else. No way in hell was that trash going anywhere near the niblet’s bottom. “Some aren’t disposable, some are better for overnight. Some of ‘em are worse with rashes…”

He trailed off as he caught sight of Hobbs’ amused face, and crossed his arms with a scowl. “Don’t you have a kid? You should know about this shit.”

“Didn’t actually get custody of Sam until she was already potty-trained,” Hobbs said, shifting the weight of the baby in his arms slightly. Shaw supposed that was fair enough. “How do _ you _ know about this shit?”

Shaw could feel the warmth of embarrassment creep up the back of his neck. He instantly glanced away.

Wasn’t like he was about to admit he’d _ read up on it,_ somewhere in a department store in the middle of Russia, cradling Toretto’s brat to his chest and staring at the thirty different brands of identical-looking nappies with a feeling of faint dread.

\----------

** _Ask: For the sentence prompt thingy(Shobbs) “That’s what I’m After.....The smile in his eyes”_ **

The thought was only a slightly jarring one. Hobbs hadn’t exactly had time to come to terms with this strange new attraction, between chasing Toretto, and Cypher, and a goddamn _ submarine_, of all things, but he’d never really been one to lie to himself, either. The idea of shoving it down, ignoring it—it just wasn’t his style.

He’d always been more ‘bull by the horns’ than 'head in the sand’.

So instead of politely looking away as a pair of eyes glanced briefly in his direction, Hobbs took another slow, savoring drink of the corona in his hand, and continued watching the conversation happening across the rooftop balcony with an assessing gaze. And jesus, but there was that grin again—this time spreading fleetingly across the other man’s mouth, and not just behind his eyes. It was there and gone in a moment, but even just a flash of it was sending warmth unfurling in Hobbs’ gut.

Deckard Shaw. Who’d have guessed? Not Hobbs, that was certain. He’d hardly given the man a second thought after tossing his ass in jail, and tossing away the keys, with the clear expectation they’d never meet again. Well, the occasional daydream may have crossed his mind—wondering what a round two would look like, how he’d go about evening the odds of their first fight so thoroughly that Shaw’d be feeling it for years to come, what the look of defeat in his wild eyes would be like—

… alright, so maybe there’d been a few more second thoughts. But they’d all been more along the lines of _ kicking _ the man’s ass, not admiring it.

Shaw’s eyes flicked back to him again, narrowing in annoyance. Hobbs, without a single ounce of shame for his ogling, just smirked back.

He had a good feeling that this was gonna be _ fun_.

\----------

** _Ask: Ship: Shobbs, sentence: “Brace yourself, this is gonna hurt.”_ **

“Well, aren’t you just a regul—_AH, FUCK!” _ Hobbs snarled, slamming his head back against the wall as a searing, sharp agony accompanied the sudden grinding _ pop _ of his left shoulder thunking back into place. He clamped his jaw shut and took a thin, hissing breath between his teeth—partly to stifle the pain, and partly to keep himself from punching out the asshole who’d caused it.

Most medics gave at least a three count before that kind of shit. _ This _ bastard, apparently, hadn’t heard of the concept.

“Quit whinin’,” Mr. Sunshine next to him snapped, voice low and gravelly and so thoroughly _ British _ in a way that Hobbs would usually appreciate a little more, if he wasn’t gritting his teeth against the little aftershocks of pain. He’s always had a bit of a _ thing _ for accents. “You’re gonna bring the rest of ‘em down on us.”

What a dick. “Guess bedside manner’s dead these days,” Hobbs grumbled back. Asshole didn’t bother to reply.

Hobbs wasn’t sure where the guy had even come from, really. One minute he was hunkering down, left arm dragging and useless next to him, lining up potshots at the terror cell that had him surrounded, and feeling increasingly concerned over his dwindling supply of ammo.

The next, he realized the gunshots around him had suddenly cut out, and a figure had appeared at his side like a ghost. Hobbs had nearly shot the man in surprise.

The kid was SAS, from the looks and sound of 'im, with the little RAMC badge identifying his medic status peeking out from his other shoulder. His presence wasn’t all that surprising; DSS had an understanding with British Special Forces on this particular op. Both organizations had some skin in the game, and the team-up was decided early on.

Hobbs hadn’t really expected to actually _ need _ the help, though.

“Where’s your team?” he murmured, tentatively stretching out his left arm. It ached, but it would hold. Long enough to finish up, at least.

Sunshine just snorted. “Ain’t no team. Just me.”

\----------

** _Ask: Shobbs: where a_** **_re you?_ **

** _Where are you?_ **

Hobbs sends the thought out along the still-faint connection he can feel pressing gently at the back of his mind, and waits.

The thread is delicate. A newborn link, still growing and shaping itself, feeling out the boundaries between Hobbs and the other soul it’s attached itself to. If he could compare it to anything, it’d be—a phantom limb, maybe. That, or it’s possible that he’s just the soul-link equivalent of a toddler, not quite used to the concept of limbs at all yet. Either way, Hobbs can’t help but prod at it, like a kid with a loose tooth. Press and pull and tug.

Apparently that’s annoying enough to provoke an answer, because the sense that suddenly drifts back at him almost feels like _ irritation/rage/disgust._ It’d be a little funny, if he didn’t know that the murderous intent following swiftly behind wasn’t at all a joke.

Hobbs’ heart twists a bit at the thought. He wonders if Shaw can feel it.

** _Let’s talk,_ ** he thinks, coaxing and gentle, and he lets the words slide back down the connection. He’s almost starting to get the hang of it, maybe, as he closes his eyes and leans back into the hospital-issued pillow at his back, waiting for another response. Hopefully words this time, if Shaw is feeling generous.

Honestly, it’s just Hobbs’ luck that his own soulmate would rather toss a bomb at him than have a simple goddamn conversation.

** _Nothin’ to talk about._ **

Hobbs jolts to attention, eyes snapping open to stare at the room around him.

The voice in his head is clear enough that he half-expects to find Shaw standing in the doorway, murder still sitting in his eyes, gun in hand and prepared for round two.

It’s empty, though; just a dark hallway beyond the door, the lighting dim but not quite gone by the nurses’ station.

Freaky. 

It might take him awhile to get used to this bullshit.

**_I’d say there’s a hell of a lot to talk about, actually,_** Hobbs pushes back, slowly relaxing back into the bed. Distantly, he notes the heart rate monitor start to slow again from its sudden spike. **_We’re _****soulmates****_, jackass._**

Just acknowledging it feels—strange. _ Soulmates._ Like a foreign word that doesn’t sit right on his tongue. He’d always wondered, like any rational person, who his could be. What they’d be like. How they’d meet.

_ This _ hadn’t exactly been the fantasy. 

Silence follows for a good three minutes. 

Hobbs gives the man one more. Then two.

Then he _ push pull prod tugs _ at the link again—

**_Fuck off,_** comes Shaw’s irritated voice once more, and Hobbs can’t help the bit of smugness he feels at the sound/sense of it. **_You’re like a fucking child. _**

** _I’m not the one playing the silent game here,_ ** Hobbs thinks, a little amused.

** _Like I told your friend: I’m not here to play _ ** **games** ** _ with you._ **

It’s a sobering reminder. Fun as it might be to rile Shaw up, Hobbs knows it’s fire he’s handling here.

** _You and your team killed the only part of my soul that matters, _ ** Shaw says suddenly. ** _I’m returning the favor._ **

And—Hobbs doesn’t really know what to say to that. Doesn’t know if _ anything _ would be good enough, if it was Kal, or Timo, or Mateo.

It’s not the same. He knows it’s not, because none of his dumbass thug little brothers would ever _ drive over innocent people in a tank, _ but. Still. He thinks he could understand, if they did.

**_Your brother’s not dead, Shaw,_** he tries, careful and quiet.

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently. 

The blast of rage the mercenary sends back makes Hobbs’ head ache. 

** _That right?_ ** Shaw scoffs. It’s _ scorn/resentment/fury_, all wrapped up in a kind of endless grief that has Hobbs sucking in a startled breath that feels like ice in his lungs. The emotion crashes over him in a drowning wave.

It feels like his dad leaving them all over again—like Jonah saying _ get out and stay out—_like coming back home to a wedding ring on the kitchen counter on top of a note that just says _ sorry,_ Sammy bawling her little eyes out in the crib upstairs—

He feels like he’s choking on it.

** _When’s the last time you heard of someone waking from a four month coma, then?_ **

Hobbs doesn’t have an answer for him. He doesn’t—doesn’t have _ anything _ for him.

Just a tangled ball of reluctant _ regret/shame _ that he knows the man won’t accept anyway. 

** _Consider this fair warning_****, **Shaw says. It’s quiet and controlled, a stark contrast from just moments before. The roiling emotions are gone so suddenly that the blankness leaves Hobbs reeling.

** _I’ll be seeing you, Agent Hobbs_ .**

Somewhere in the back of his head, he can feel a door slam.

It feels like finality.

\----------

** _Ask: Ship: Shobbs. Sentence: "Are you crying?"_ **

“No, I’m not _ fucking crying,” _ Shaw snarls, clearly irritated—but the hand he raises to swipe clumsily over his watering eyes tells a slightly different story. Hobbs snorts.

“Might wanna talk to your doc about that sweating eye condition,” he says wryly, striding towards the downed mercenary, and offering out his hand to help boost him up.

Predictably, Shaw ignores it. Instead he just glares vaguely in Hobbs’ direction from his sprawl on the ground, too busy being his usual brand of stubborn and dragging himself up into a seated position against the wall to respond. His eyes, strangely enough, are drifting slightly towards Hobbs’ left with the expression. Hobbs frowns down at him.

“You good?”

Hobbs knows he’d given plenty of warning before tossing the flash grenade into the middle of the dog pile that had been forming around Shaw. The man had been getting swamped—still able to put down each guard that had naively thrown themselves at him fist-first, but taking more hits as the group had converged. The grenade had done the job, stunned the bastards long enough for Hobbs himself to swoop in and smash some heads together, and hopefully give Shaw some needed breathing space, but…

_ Surely _ Shaw had heeded the warning—surely the idiot hadn’t _ ignored _ him—

“Shit,” Shaw mutters. The man’s blinking furiously, staring straight ahead of himself, but his gaze looks a bit unfocused. Like he’d been knocked upside the head too hard, and his eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to the idea of pointing in the right direction yet. Hobbs notes the tears that are still forming at the corner of his eyes, and his concern ratchets up a few notches.

“What’s the problem?” he snaps, crossing his arms. “We’ve got a mission to finish up here, in case you haven’t noticed, princess.”

“I can’t—,” Shaw starts, mouth twisting in fury. He swipes again at the tear that starts making it’s path down his cheek, and then slams that same fist against his own thigh in obvious frustration. “You _ useless fuckwit, _I can’t _ see.” _

… well, goddamn.

This could be a problem.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at username: deckard-shaw


End file.
